


Glow

by Everlind



Series: Ever After verse [8]
Category: Tennis no Oujisama | Prince of Tennis
Genre: M/M, Ohtori is not-so-slightly Shishido!obessed, hyotei madness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-01
Updated: 2013-07-01
Packaged: 2017-12-16 18:39:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,912
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/865314
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Everlind/pseuds/Everlind
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Balancing out Shishido's temperament can be done in many ways. Even when Shishido's temperament is gone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Glow

It is one of those slow, hot mornings.

As always, the alarm goes off at five. As always, Ohtori ignores it, being aware of the rough, grating music, without fully waking. Not his alarm. Instead he wriggles into the soft cotton sheets and settles down, having another two full hours of blissful dozing ahead of him.

However the alarm is not smacked into submission. It keeps going, sounding rather as though someone is playing on a hybrid chainsaw-come-guitar contraption and after ten minutes of it Ohtori is awake enough to roll over to see what the holdup is.

Shishido is still.

There's the pale, sharp curve of his shoulder and the vulnerable back of his neck. He's kicked the sheets down and left them in a lump around his knees; his whole back, buttocks and thighs are exposed in the pale morning light. His hair is dark and disastrous against the hazy white pillow.

Asleep.

"Ryou?" Ohtori whispers and reaches out to touch him.

His skin is warm and impossibly smooth and soft. The sight of his own large hand curving against the slender body stirs something low in the pit of his stomach, but he just gives a careful little shake. And then another one. And another. Somewhat harder. Finally he shakes rather firmly, enough to rock Shishido's shoulder back and forth.

"Hmr?" Shishido goes, quite discontent yet utterly bewildered. "Wha- what?

"Your clock. It's time," Ohtori says softly.

Backlighted by the window, he can see the profile of Shishido's face as he tilts to his back. Hands rub at eyes. Delicately, a chest rises and falls on every intake and expulsion of air. His throat bobs as he swallows. Light casts his body in sharp contrasts, in a subtly hued monochrome.

"Fuck it," Shishido mumbles and slaps the clock into silence. He lies down again.

Ohtori is fully awake. He sits up, blinks in shock. "You're not going jogging?" he asks. It took him a great deal of sheer perseverance, patience and pure, unadulterated  _cunning_  (not to mention careful manipulation) to convince Shishido to stay in bed on a Sunday. Besides that Shishido has never, ever deviated from his morning routine, keeping at it with the sort of sheer single-mindedness that borders on pure mulishness.

And now, out of the blue, he'd forsake it.

Conclusion?

Something's up.

"Are you alright?" Ohtori adds, worried that's he's come down with something.

There's a long silence. Eventually Shishido sighs, "I'm just tired, Choutarou. Don't worry about it."

Ohtori is worried about it.

Just… it's not like him to suddenly let go of something so ingrained into his complex (and somewhat absurd) set of rules and musts that he heaps unto his own shoulders. It's like the hundred sit-ups and hundred push-ups he does a day, without a fault. Even when drunk, sick, in pain, on the verge of passing out or cross-eyed with arousal, he does those. No exception. That goes for the jogging, too, which he sticks to always, no matter how atrocious the weather but for Sundays. Their Sundays. Because on Sundays, Shishido does not get up. On Sundays he stays in bed. With him.

On Sundays.

Not on Wednesdays.

"You're worrying," Shishido grunts. "Stop it. I wanna sleep and I can't if you keep doing those eyes."

"I'm not doing-" he shakes his head. "But you always go jogging."

"Not today," Shishido says and turns towards him. Arms come up and tug Ohtori down.

Falling back into his pillow Ohtori automatically shifts and accommodates the position of his body when Shishido moves to embrace him. It's knowing each other through and through. Shishido doesn't say that he wants Ohtori on his back with his right arm around Shishido and his legs a little apart. No, it happens as naturally as breathing: Shishido tucks against him, pillowing his head on Ohtori's chest, right arm curling over Ohtori's body and a slender leg hooks over his own right as Ohtori curves the arm around his shoulders and allows the leg to sling over his. His unburned, left arm ends up in Shishido's hair, carding gently.

As soon as Shishido lays his head down, he sleeps.

It's the sleep of the utterly exhausted: he's gone deep and true.

Ohtori bends his head until his lips can nudge a kiss into sleep-tousled hair and worries.

***

From then on he keeps a close eye on his partner.

What was just a vague notion before becomes a solid fact by next day's evening: Shishido is tired.

It's not the 'I-didn't-go-to-bed-on-time-too-many-nights-in-a-row' sort of tired, no, it goes deeper. Something within him has gone past a point that refuses to let him recharge simply on the base principle of a good night's rest. It is nothing bad, or especially dramatic, but it is there nonetheless.

It shows in his not going jogging on Wednesday, but also not on Thursday.

It shows in his lack of appetite and in the subsequent weight loss. When anything 'wrong' occurs on the more mental aspect of Shishido's life compass, he loses weight like a dog shedding hair. It goes without saying that losing weight is a bad,  _bad_  thing altogether for him.

It shows in how his approach to every single thing, how minute or weighty of consequence, is numb, almost uninterested.

It shows in his crabbiness and his overall 'laissez-moi tranquille' attitude.

It shows in the lack of sex.

Now, it's not that Ohtori is about to make a problem about the latter.

But.

It's a strong indicator all the same. After all, it's a fact: they like to have sex with each other and preferably a lot of it. No, years have not dampened the enthusiasm and no, the transition from new and exiting to familiar and loving didn't dampen it either. Quite the contrary: the better they get at it, the larger the drive for it. In fact, it never stopped feeling new, not really, as every time is different, though it did get familiar. But it certainly never stopped being exciting, despite the utter know-how of the concept and each other.

But the fact that Shishido still reaches for him, that the need for physicality between them both,  _remains_ , but no sex is enough of a signal to put Ohtori on alert.

Like now.

It's hot and Ohtori is shirtless. Not to show off, or anything, but simply because the temperature is the sort that boils your brains to goo as soon as you dare to step into sun. Inside there's no burning sun, but instead there's the muggy, thick heat that crawls in through cracks and crevices.

Ohtori is doing the dishes, slowly and calmly, as even scrubbing at a plate is enough to make him break a sweat. His jeans hang low on his hips: a belt would just chafe his skin. Normally this is a recipe that'll have Shishido backing him into the nearest available surface -horizontal or vertical, whatever is closest- to have his way with him. As Shishido walks into the kitchen, there's a short pause in his shuffling footfalls. The back of his neck prickles and Ohtori knows his partner is looking at him. After an almost thoughtful moment the steps recommence, come closer. Arms slip around him from behind. Lips press between his shoulderblades. Shishido hugs him and kisses his back, before resting his cheek against the place his mouth just touched.

Against his stomach, Shishido's forearms are surprisingly tanned. The hot weather makes the veins on the back of his hands stand out and as Ohtori lifts his own out of the suds, he sees the same there. Men's hands.

"Damn, you smell nice," Shishido mutters against his back.

Ohtori smiles and turns in the circle of arms to face him.

Shishido chooses to face-plant against his chest, leaning into him. "I could seriously get high off you," he mumbles, rubbing his face sideways and up and down against him as though he's marking his territory.

"I'm not sure that's a compliment," Ohtori answers and grins when Shishido bites at his collarbone.

They stand there, embracing, just breathing and leaning into each other.

Ohtori gets what Shishido is saying, though. He feels like that about Shishido, too. Now he can bury his face in the curve of his neck whenever he needs to get his 'dose', but he remembers that up until technically less than a year ago, this simple pleasure was something he'd not ever thought of being able to make a habit off. Back then they often didn't see each other for days, or even longer, and he'd find himself light-headed and swooning when he did get the chance to just breathe in deeply against the skin of Shishido's neck, or face, or hair, or chest, or even hands.

It's meant to be a female thing, getting all flustered over the smell of your partner, but Ohtori finds that he could easily tack 'intoxicating' to the experience of smelling Shishido and not being over-romanticizing it at all.

"Are you aright?" Ohtori asks him, just to be sure.

Shishido groans. "Not  _that_  again, hell, Choutarou, let it go. It's the weather, this heat. I can't always be one big ball of energy, right? I'd have thought you'd be happy if I'd stayed in bed in the morning."

"I know. I am. Just-"

 _You're losing weight. You're vacant. You're not just tired, you're exhausted._ Ohtori wonders which option to pick, when Shishido says:

"Don't worry about it, alright? I'm fine. It's  _fine_."

***

"So I thought we could take the train together this Saturday," Oshitari says.

For the past half an hour Ohtori has been actively trying to get  _rid_  of Oshitari-san (and really, doesn't he have anything better to do? Like work? For which people are paying him, right this instant. Which is the very thing Oshitari never actually seems to do, you know,  _work_ ), but this snags his attention away from his paperwork.

"…and go where?" Ohtori asks.

Oshitari quirks an eyebrow. From this angle he is impossibly lanky and lean, especially slouched against the desk with his legs crossed at the ankle the way he is.

"Didn't Shishido get the e-mail?" Oshitari asks.

He shakes his head. Even checking his mail has been too much of an effort lately. The laptop has been sitting on his desk for the past few days, collecting dust.

"Ah, that explains the lack of complaints, then," Oshitari mumbles, before crossing his arms and pursing his lips. "Atobe is doing this hanabi festival on Saturday. He's invited a select company and is treating them to entertainment and a fireworks display at midnight. Gates open at nine."

"Sounds nice…"

"Traditional dress-code required," Oshitari adds, smiling a little. Knowing, as always, without having been told.

"Oh," Ohtori says, blinks and then thinks,  _Ooooh_ , again. And reaches for his mobile phone to send A Very Important text message.

***

"I'm not wearing a yukata," Shishido says point-blank.

"But-"

"I don't even own one," he goes on, "the last time I had to was in  _high school_. I'm not doing it. Atobe can go and f-"

"Ryou."

"What?"

"Ryou."

"No, don't you even- No. Stop that. Right now. I don't care. You can't make me. I'm not wearing a yukata."

"…"

"Knock it off! I swear to God, Ohtori, stop it. Cause no. Just no. So leave off, alright? Choutarou? Choutarou.  _Choutarou_. Don't you- ack!  _Stop_!"

"Sure?"

"A hundred percent! A thousand percent! Surer than sure. So you can stop doing… doing… you-you  _evil_ , wretched, person, you. I can't  _believe_ \- aaah."

"Yes?"

"No. No! Don't talk to me. I hate you. We're over, you're evil, I'm kicking your arse on the street. And you can take your goddamn cat with you. You, you-"

"I'm sorry. I'll stop. Don't hate me."

"D-don't  _stop_!"

"Oh?"

"I don't hate you. Don't stop."

"Alright."

"You're still evil."

"I can live with that."

"Che."

"Are you going to wear a yukata?"

"…drop dead."

***

"I can't believe you just spend that much yen on a yukata for me," Shishido says and pinches the bridge of his nose. They're walking back home after they spend the better part of the afternoon picking out a yukata for Shishido.

It's Saturday. Overhead the sun scorches their skin. Cicadas cluster together in each and every patch of green they find. Their droning comes in deafening waves as they pass parks and gardens, only to retreat as they turn into a street with concrete apartment blocks. The sunlight is harsh, blinding. When Ohtori accidentally looks up, he has white spots dancing all over his vision after. Occasionally their arms brush. Their skin clings and sticks together like wet velcro.

Ohtori smiles. "It's for the greater good."

Shishido snorts "What 'greater' good?" --there's a pointed glance directed at Ohtori's crotch-- "Yours?" He gestures with the bag. "How many times do you think I'm gonna wear this thing? Huh?  _Ooo-ooh no_ , no way. Don't you think I don't know what you're thinking right now, Choutarou. You can unthink it."

"I didn't even say anything," Ohtori protests. Well, he pretends to protest, but he's actually amused and quite happy. Shishido still has dark smudges under his eyes and he seems a little disoriented at times, but that aside the hours they just spend together were nice. It was time spend bantering and teasing each other, instead of the usual frustration that accompanies their 'shopping trips' (which often end in a cold war) together. Ohtori suspects that the whole yukata-thing secretly amuses Shishido, too. Well, right up to the point that he'll have to put it on, that is. He's already mentally prepared for the battle of wills they'll have later tonight.

"You didn't have to say anything," Shishido mutters. "This is like the tuxedo thing, isn't it? Or the jersey thing? Ah, see: you're blushing. I knew it was."

Ohtori looks away, knowing that he's already betrayed himself and yet still trying to save face.

The belated shyness makes Shishido laugh and Ohtori finds he doesn't mind being laughed at, not when Shishido's face lits up the way it does.

***

However by eight thirty, Shishido has stopped smiling altogether.

He stalls and mutters and finds numerous excuses -things he has to do, check, find, look at- as long as it keeps him from putting on the yukata. Not only that, but their little outing seems to have leeched the little energy he managed to muster earlier. He's gone grouchy and difficult from exhaustion. Every time he thinks he's clear from Ohtori, he'll sit, slump or curl up where he can, eyes closed.

Eventually Ohtori decides that it might be easier to put his own on first and  _then_  wrangle Shishido into his.

In the bedroom he strips down to his boxers, a pair with a snug, smooth fit that won't wrinkle the fabric of the yukata. His own is a soft, muted, creamy sort of white. At the sleeves and from mid-thigh down, there's a suggestion of waves dyed into the fabric in true, bright white, creating the merest suggestion of a pattern. It's an overall very subtle, light and wonderfully made garment, with a light gray obi. A very expensive one.

Ohtori's had practice. One of his uncles runs a well-to-do ryokan and a lot of vacations, or even weekends, were spend there. He slips into his yukata with ease, folding the right collar towards his left hipbone and the left collar toward his right. Tying it in place with the waist string, he fishes for the obi and begins wrapping it low on his waist. Doing it to himself means that he makes the knot at the front and then turns it around the right way. Done.

But now… the biggest hurdle.

He finds Shishido sitting, of all places, against the cabinets in the kitchen. Legs tucked to his chest, arms wrapped around them and cheek pillowed on his knees, he looks terribly young and defenseless. For a moment, Ohtori reconsiders his intention of dragging Shishido out to some crowded, busy place and keeping him up until late at night becomes early morning. Then again he's been sleeping all over the place for the past few days and there's not been the slightest improvement. Maybe taking him out, showing him a good time and making sure he's absolutely physically as well as mentally exhausted by the end of it is the solution.

So.

Ohtori kneels down in front of him, yukata puddling around his feet. Brushing his knuckles along Shishido's jaw, he says, "Ryou."

Shishido answers: "No." Cracks open an eye. "I changed my mind, I'm not gonna-" he sizzles to a stop with the 'a' trailing away. "Uhm," he offers after some silence.

"What?" Ohtori prompts.

"Nothing. Just. You know. You. Dressed like that," a hand disengages from the circle around his legs, to touch the crisp collar at Ohtori's throat. "You look nice."

For a moment, Shishido looks so soft and gentle that Ohtori feels certain that his irrational aversion for yukatas has been conquered. Then he opens his mouth.

"That does it. I'm not wearing that thing," he makes a flapping, half-angry sort of gesture at Ohtori. "I'll look like a tool next to you, so you can forget it."

"Hey," Ohtori grabs the hand, folds it between his own. "Come on, please."

Shishido rolls his eyes, looks away. Ohtori would tell him he thinks, no,  _knows_ , Shishido will look absolutely beautiful in it, not to mention good enough to drag into some nearby bushes to touch him all over, but he's certain that 1) Shishido will not like being called 'beautiful' (as he insists it's a girly word) and 2) wouldn't believe him anyway.

"For me," he adds instead, which he knows to be the equivalent of a verbal 'checkmate'.

Shishido's face crumples and he lets his forehead thunk to his knees with a suffering sigh. "Evil. To the core. Alright, fine." With no small amount of muttering, grumbling and dark looks tossed in his direction, Shishido makes for the bedroom.

And he stays in the bedroom long enough that Ohtori worries they'll be late.

So he goes to check and see if Shishido hasn't made an attempt to hang himself with the obi (or, more likely, use it as a rope to climb out of the window). As it turns out, it's neither. Ohtori carefully eases open the door to utter silence. The blinds admit honey-hued bars of light inside, making everything glow dimly, and for a moment the room seems completely empty.

He says: "Ryou?" to the room in general, feeling an irrational stab of fear.

Something stirs on the bed. Ohtori jumps, for just an instant, before he realizes it's Shishido. Who, he also realizes, is asleep. Again. And  _then_  he realizes Shishido has the yukata on.

If you use 'on' in a very loose sort of way.

Oh God.

Maybe this is a bad idea after all.

He didn't quite realize how badly it would affect him.

'On' means that the garment is draped over his shoulders and tied frumpily at the waist with the string. That's it. There's more skin showing than covered. It doesn't help that Shishido is on his back with his arms akimbo, as though he simply keeled over where he sat. It makes the fabric gape at his neck, exposing sharp collarbones. His legs are still on the ground, the obi laid out over his knees. Probably the battle of attempting to put the latter on correctly has so severely exhausted him he simply collapsed.

But holy damn.

It's true that Ohtori can never look at Shishido without liking what he sees very, very much, but this is something else altogether. Something else altogether that doesn't even make any sense. After all, what's the point of really, really, really, really, really liking to see your partner wear something, so badly, that the only thing you want is  _to take it off_  upon as soon as seeing it?

Yes. Well.

He can do this.

He can wake up this sleeping, barely dressed man on the bed (who makes for quite an unsuspecting, defenseless prey), without, uh, losing control of himself.

He can.

He's an adult now.

He's responsible.

… and Atobe would make him regret it if they arrived any later than they're going to be at this rate.

So.

Zen.

He can do this.

"Ryou?"

Shishido makes a sleepy noise. His lips part.

Ohtori closes his eyes. This has got to be on purpose. It's got to be. The lying all alluringly on the bed and the slightly parted mouth and the collarbones showing -and hey, isn't that a lovebite he put there some days ago?- and the dark eyelashes making dusky half-moons on his cheeks. Definitely some ploy to keep them from making it to Atobe's sometime this weekend. Because at this rate the alternate option of spending the entire night and early morning attempting to physically and mentally exhaust Shishido in this very bed is starting to seem like an absolutely brilliant plan.

Then again.

Atobe is someone he'd rather have happy, instead of annoyed. Even if he can't force Ohtori to run laps any longer.

Alright.

Zen.

No touching.

At least not below the belt.

And one little kiss can't hurt, right?

Slowly he lowers his weight onto the bed, trying to keep the sag in the mattress from alerting Shishido to his presence, and then he eases himself onto his left elbow so he's leaning over his partner a little. In the end, Ohtori manages to keep it nice and clean (which, he finds, deserves some sort of award. After all, the only logical step after a half-naked Shishido is a fully naked Shishido). He presses his mouth to Shishido' forehead first -which causes his breathing to alter-, then he pecks the tip of his nose -which makes him stir- and then he kisses his mouth, soft and close-lipped, at which point Shishido is watching him dazedly from under half closed eyelids.

He pulls back, says, "Hi."

"I fell asleep," Shishido mumbles, lips brushing Ohtori's lower lip at the words. Then frowns and adds: "I hate obis. Can't I wear a jinbei?"

"I'll help," Ohtori offers cheerfully.

"I was afraid you'd say that," Shishido grumbles. "Alright, fine, let's get this over with."

He lets Ohtori pull him to his feet and stands swaying muzzily while he fetches the obi where it slid to the ground. "Hold this," he gives Shishido the obi and eases his arms up and sideways away from him. He pries loose the string and watches the fabric of the yukata fall open. Shishido is wearing snug boxers, too, and they cut starkly black against the skin of his stomach and thighs. There's quite the sincere attempt not to stare, but he kind of does anyway.

"Never though I had to say this, since I haven't got any boobs or anything, but: eyes up, Choutarou," Shishido says with an eye-roll to his words.

Ohtori doesn't bother to hide his smile, because despite his testy words Shishido isn't completely unaffected. And they both know it. Besides... Ohtori can _see_  it, too, so: hah.

"You don't need breasts to give me something to look at," Ohtori says, as he begins folding the yukata closed and not a little regretfully. The string goes next to tie it securely.

"This conversation is officially too lame," Shishido mutters and grunts when Ohtori gives a firm tug to smooth the fabric out. "This whole thing is too lame," he adds, grumbling.

Meanwhile Ohtori is already making the second anti-clockwise wrap around Shishido's waist, making sure the obi remains even and creaseless, which it is. Practice. The last part is folded into two, for a classic Kai no Kuchi knot, which his hands twist into shape effortlessly. The obi sits low on Shishido's hips, the knot elegant yet simple at the small of his back. Even in the dim light Ohtori can tell that the amount of yen was worth it. Running his hands along the side of Shishido's silhouette, from his shoulders to the tops of his thighs, he admires the fit of the yukata, the way the light cotton hugs his body.

"Ready?" Shishido asks.

"Yes," Ohtori answers. "Turn around."

Shishido turns.

Ohtori swallows.

Audibly.

Worth every single yen. And then some.

The blue is brighter than Shishido originally wanted, not flashy, but dark and yet not muted. It catches the eye, without sticking out like a loud flare. That aside it works amazing with Shishido's skintone, making it glow without leeching him pale. There's no pattern, no extra adornments, nothing. The obi is black. As simple as it gets. But it makes Shishido's eyes burn and his lips stand out, as if daring to be kissed, somehow, or maybe it is just him imagining that last part. Okay he's imaging that part, Shishido's mouth indicates severe frownage taking place.

"Well?" Shishido asks after a long silence. His voice has dropped a few notches. Eyes are anchored somewhere on the floor, between the tips of their toes. "Is it… is it okay?"

Ohtori can tell Shishido really feels out of his element. Right now he doesn't wear the yukata; it wears him. His shoulders are tense and his posture awkward. Ohtori himself barely notices the difference, besides the fact that the cotton feels nice on his skin.

Out loud, all he says is: "Yes," but the rest is said by palming the side of Shishido's face to tilt his head up and then by pressing their lips together. Something about the force behind it makes Shishido gasp and lick his lips, almost unconsciously. But licking his own means that the slick of his tongue strays against Ohtori's lips as well, moist and warm. And what can he do but follow that tongue with his own? When Shishido parts his mouth willingly, winds a demanding hand into the fabric of his collar to drag him closer, Ohtori dimly gives up on Atobe's little social gathering and decides it is about time to get Shishido out of the yukata again.

That bubble bursts as soon as he thinks it, though.  _Something_  starts to play Darth Vader's theme song quite obnoxiously, ruining the mood and making Shishido dash away to grab

at the pocket of his discarded jeans.

"What is it?" he snaps into his mobile phone, scowling. "We're on our way, Atobe, don't get your knickers in a twist. What. Hey, it was your dumb idea to-"

Ohtori steals the phone. "We'll be right there, Atobe-san," he says and hangs up before his ex-captain can reply. To Shishido he says, "Darth Vader? Really?"

"Suits him," Shishido mumbles. "All nice and ominous. Potentially obnoxious when heard one too many times."

Why did he even ask?

"Right," he dismisses instead. "Get your geta, Oshitari-san and Mukahi-san are probably wondering where we are. I promised them we'd be there and- what? What is it? Lets go!"

Shishido's brows slant disapprovingly. Well, more so than usual.

"I gotta wear  _geta_?"

 

"…Ryou."

***

"I can't believe you made me wear geta," Shishido tells him, for the umpteenth time as they walk the short distance from the station to Atobe's mansion.

"You lost at jan-ken-pon," Ohtori counters, for what must be the umpteenth time, too.

Shishido scowls.

Ahead of them Mukahi skips merrily along in his jinbei and sandals. Of course, that does not help Shishido's mood. Nor did it help his mood that Oshitari took one look at him -one long, long look- before once again asking Ohtori whether he was  _quite certain_  he didn't want to swap. To add insult to injury, Mukahi burst out laughing. Loudly. And after he got the tears of mirth wiped off he congratulated Ohtori on successfully 'making Shishido his bitch', at which point, needless to say, Oshitari and he had to pull them apart.

Theirs is a friendship Ohtori honestly doesn't quite understand. More than half of it is spend bickering, arguing and insulting each other, yet he once saw Shishido all but tear off some senior's head for picking on Mukahi.

Anyway, said friendship isn't helping Shishido's mood now.

Nor is the actual arrival at the party.

Ohtori is so tangled up in his endless agonizing he doesn't notice that the other two have stopped walking until he all but knocks over Mukahi, who'd been rooted to the spot in consternation. And it's hard to miss  _why_.

"Well," Oshitari says neutrally.

"Please," Shishido says, voice strangled. "Please, someone tell me that Atobe did not line the driveway with naked ice sculptures of himself.  _Please_."

Mukahi says: "Hah, I bet a whole month's pay that Atobe is not being  _quite_  honest. Because that? No _ooooo_ way. It looks more the size appropriate of a horse, that. Unless he started swallowing some iffy pills since last time I saw him in the showers, of course."

Shishido still pleads, "Please. Anybody."

"Indeed," Oshitari responds. "Everybody knows Ohtori-kun was the one who had-"

"OKAY!" Shishido interjects, having wrenched himself out of his shock-induced stupor. "That's it, I can't take this anymore! There's no fucking way I'm walking up a driveway lined with anatomically incorrect ice sculptures of  _Atobe_ , dressed in a goddamn yukata and geta. No way. You can't make me."

Ohtori is inclined to agree, for the first time this evening.

"Of course we can," Oshitari differs to point out.

"Uh, no you can't, Yuushi. Screw you," is Shishido's succinct opinion.

"Uh, yes we can," Mukahi mimics.

"Or we will tell Atobe  _who_ , exactly, decided to -ahem- re-style" --there's air-quotations here-- "his hairpiece back in third year," Oshitari adds.

"That was  _you_?" Ohtori exclaims.

"Uh," Shishido goes again, avoiding all gazes. "You know what? I'll just close my eyes. Lets go."

***

"Really though," Shishido says to Atobe after they finally make it to the end of the driveway (no small feat, considering Shishido actually did close his eyes, but Mukahi thought it a brilliant plan to describe each, erm, certain stalactite-ish aspect of the sculptures' anatomy in great detail, for which Shishido blindly tried to hit him and ended up with the two of them nearly knocking one of said sculptures off its pedestal). "Ice sculptures? It's thirty-five degrees! How the hell did you do that?"

Atobe smirks. "I have my methods."

"That and slightly delusional tendencies," Shishido mutters. "Couldn't you just have… you know, have them chisel a leaf in front of  _it_?"

"Why?" Atobe counters. "Jealous?"

At this point Ohtori decides that the wisest course would be to get his hands on some sake. Lots of it. And not for him. With that goal in mind, he sets off.

Despite the decidedly unwise move of the ice sculptures, Atobe has truly managed to create a terrific ambience. Right now the night has not fully set in yet, hovering on that awkward edge of 'light' and 'dark' and not yet quite twilight, either. More like shadowy light. Despite that the whole domain has lanterns spiderwebbing between the trees, white ones and red ones and blue ones, creating pockets of muted light between the copses of green. It's beautiful and soothing.

The domain is large enough that the select audience is able to spread out, thus allowing for a relaxed atmosphere. Ohtori encounters others occasionally, but for the most part he is able to wander around lost in thought.

What he thinks he needs to do to revert Shishido's situation back to what is normal for him, is to exhaust him. Strange however that idea seems, because that's what he  _is_  already: exhausted. However, he has been hanging in that same lifeless state for days. Maybe, if he manages to overload him with sensation, both mental and physical, he can lift him out of that rut.

But that won't happen if Shishido makes it a point to have an issue with every single thing this evening. He needs to relax. Lose his inhibitions somewhat.

Hence the sake.

Speaking of which…

There's a stall just up along the path.

Five minutes later he is heading back with two sakazuki cups, the ceramic nice and cool against the insides of his palms. Careful not to spill, he keeps his eyes trained on the sloshing liquid inside the saucer -and nearly knocks straight into someone. Someone not only quite tall, but with shoulders wide enough to give Ohtori a run for his money. Not the person you want to give a reason to find offense with you.

"Ah, excuse me!" he apologizes, bowing his head.

"That's quite alright," someone says. The voice is such a horrid mismatch for the body standing before him he has to look up.

"Ohtori-kun, wasn't it?" Yukimura, standing slightly behind the owner of the burly chest, asks.

"Hai," he nods and glances at the person he nearly just tipped two dishes of sake over. "Sanada-san," he manages, almost light-headed with relief that all the of the drink is still inside the sakazuki cups.

Sanada nods.

"Atobe send us an invitation," Yukimura says, "Tezuka is here, too. Not to mention Echizen."

"Aa," he answers, unsure of what to say. And it's hard not to stare, either. Sanada is even more formally attired than he is (not to mention capless), making Ohtori feel grubby and lazy for taking such an casual approach with his own. And Yukimura looks as intimidating in his yukata as he did in his tennis uniform.

"Where did you get that sake?" Yukimura asks.

"Seiichi," Sanada murmurs.

"You need to loosen up," Yukimura answers and arches an insistent brow at Ohtori.

"Just up ahead," Ohtori says, tilting his chin back over his shoulder. "Only stall there, can't miss it."

"Thank you," Yukimura says. "Enjoy the fireworks."

"You, too, Yukimura-san," Ohtori answers, bows his head.

Yukimura grabs the sleeve of Sanada's kimono and tows him along.

Letting out a deep breath Ohtori slowly walks on, trying to keep the cups straight while also watching where he goes. The idea that he almost up-ended the two cups on the front of the obviously expensive kimono Sanada had on, is enough to make him want to avoid something like that happening for real. As is a law of the universe, Ohtori can't find Shishido anywhere, not where he left him, nor nearby, not arguing with Atobe, and spends a good fifteen minutes stealing about with the sloshing cups, dodging people left and right, wishing he'd tied Shishido to a tree with his obi.

When he finds him, it is dark enough for stars to wink into view. He's sitting on a tarp with Kabaji, Jiroh and Oshitari, quietly conversing over the sound of soft snores. Or rather, he and Oshitari are, while Kabaji gives a rumble every now and then when prompted. Jiroh is dressed in a light blue jinbei with striped shorts awfully similar to the ones he used to wear in school. He looks like he's dressed for bed.

"I saved you a spot," Shishido says as Ohtori approaches. "Atobe says this is the best place to watch, so we staked out."

"I got us sake," Ohtori says and slips out of his geta to kneel on the tarp.

Shishido makes a face. "Uhm…"

"One cup won't hurt," Ohtori tells him firmly.

_Or four._

There's a huff. "Fine." Shishido takes the cup, peers in it. Slowly he touches the tip of his tongue to the surface, testing. "Chilly."

"Good?' Ohtori asks.

Oshitari snorts. "Shishido wouldn't be able to to tell good sake apart even if it stripped and danced para para right in front of him."

"Yes, thank you, Yuushi," Shishido grumbles into his drink. "Kindly shut the fuck up now."

The darker it gets, the more members of their old team gather. Atobe shocks them by disentangling himself from the pompous cluster of business associates that flock around him, gracing them with his presence.

Kabaji leaves for a a short while when his cell beeps, to return shortly after with Hiyoshi in tow.

"Hello," Hiyoshi says, looking rushed and distracted. Fatherhood suits him, but doesn't seem to be all that easy beyond the first step of the process: 'make a baby' (a.k.a. have sex).

Kabaji delicately steps out of sandals and sits down close to Ohtori. With a subtle motion he draws Ohtori's attention, before inconspicuously pressing a whole bottle of sake into Ohtori's hand.

"Wha-"

Kabaji inclines his head towards Shishido. He and Mukahi are making attempts to wake up Jiroh. In vain.

"Oh." Ohtori blinks and then promptly proceeds with taking advantage of his partner's preoccupation to re-fill his cup. "Thanks," he mouths at Kabaji.

Kabaji winks, before turning fully towards Hiyoshi, who seems hell-bent on unburdening himself from all the stress by tipping back a sakazuki cup filled to the brim as though it was lemonade.

Two re-fills later it is truly dark. Shishido doesn't seem to feel anything suspicious yet and if it weren't for the fact that he doesn't seem to notice his apparently magical-never-emptying cup, Ohtori would wonder whether Kabaji hadn't accidentally given him water. As it is, he still seems quite steady on his feet when he dashes off to fetch a snack, moving with his usual no-nonsense sort of gait as he disappears off into the dark. Even when he returns, he plops down confidently and steadily. His eyes are sharp.

Ohtori has refilled the cup yet again, taking a sip himself to check. But it's sake. Very good, strong sake. Hopefully Shishido is having a delayed effect of sorts. And hopefully it won't hit him with the force of a sledgehammer when it does catch up.

"Wanna bite?" Shishido holds out a stick of dango.

Ohtori nods and moves his hand to take it when Shishido proceeds with  _feeding_  him, holding the stick horizontal for him to take a nibble of.

Okay.

The sake is working.

If Shishido is publicly feeding him, the sake is doing its job. Trying to act as though everything is peachy keen normal, Ohtori ducks his head and takes a bite. The dango is covered in sticky syrup. Sweet. It coats his lips and doesn't come off the first time he licks them. Nor the second time.

He honestly doesn't expect a warm mouth against his, not kissing, but opening hot and moist over his lips to take the syrup off. The inside of Shishido's lips drag over his as he leans into Ohtori nose-to-nose, watching his undoubtedly bemused expression from under lowered lashes. And to finish it off, he can feel the tip of his tongue tracing along his lower lip, undoubtedly under the guise of catching any errand syrup left over. If it weren't for that look. That look isn't about syrup… wait. Maybe it is. Sort of. In a very mind-in-the-gutter kind of way. Ahem.

Ohtori blinks.

Shishido sits back, grins.

Wow.

The sake is  _definitely_  working.

Shishido is very big on his no PDA policy. Strict to a fault. And even though the current circumstances would allow for them to drop their guard -surrounded by people they can trust, otherwise isolated, it being dark enough for a little privacy- Shishido wouldn't have done that, not if the sake wasn't doing its job.

And what a job.

Having finished off his treat, Shishido settles to lean against him, breathing out deeply and contently. Ohtori hardly dares to move and makes a mental memo to ask Kabaji whether he can buy this stuff in bulk.

The rest of their friends are polite enough to not stare, except for (who else) Mukahi, who has probably never seen Shishido kiss anybody for as long as they know each other. Let alone basically -because, let's face it, that's what he did- suggestively lick someone's mouth. Probably never thought Shishido capable of it. At least, if the piece of takoyaki that falls out of his dangling jaw to roll off into the bushes with only a glistering trail of saliva to show for its departure is any indication.

Oshitari is kind enough to reach out and snap his jaw shut with a click.

With that, Atobe says: "Jiroh, wake up."

Jiroh bounces up as though poked with a cattle prod, eyes wide. "Fireworks _sssss_!" he goes. "Ne?"

"Yes," Atobe says, raising his hand up in the sky. "Just about… now."

He snaps his fingers.

***

The fireworks are amazing.

Up in the night sky colors and flashes make a peony bouquet, with gold and magenta and electric blue. They bang and hum and whistle, bathing the meadow and trees underneath in soft washes of light. Ohtori has to admit he's not so much watching the amazing fireworks as he is watching Shishido.

Who is genuinely, unashamedly leaning back into him. Ohtori's face is being tickled by the brush of his hair and his arm is pressed along the length of Shishido's back. The night has advanced enough that due to all the moving and squirming (and a certain amount of surreptitious tugging), Shishido's yukata is hanging loose. The V at his neck gapes and depending on how he shifts, a flash of leg might show.

Ohtori peers along over his shoulder, enjoys the view.

Also, there's nothing out there that can make his throat squeeze as tight and his breathing stutter on the exhales the way Shishido does. Maybe that is strange, but looking at him sometimes hurts in the best way ever. And alright, it is no secret that he really does worship the ground Shishido walks on, for so many reasons besides the physical ones. Shishido simply does that to him. Did he get lucky, that of all the sort of matches that occur between such a mind-boggling number of people on this planet, he got a match so good, so perfect that Shishido can make him ache with happiness?

Yes, alright. The sake is making him sappy.

But really now.

Is it always like this? This violent, almost? The emotion is cruel in its intensity. Is this just them? The two of them and their own chemistry?

Ohtori is trying to figure this out as he observes the fireworks blooming into a mirror-image in Shishido's dark eyes, sees the color highlighting his face, when Shishido tilts his head back over his shoulder and says:

"Choutarou."

Right then Ohtori doesn't have to ask.

They don't move. Shishido doesn't turn. He leans back, dipping his head deep, his own short hair dusting the back of his shoulders. Ohtori straightens, lifts a hand to cup it over the exposed column of his partner's throat, feeling the tendons pull taut. They kiss. Upside-down. It works different, more delicate, but comes with a very unique sensation. There's Shishido's bottom lip against his upper at first and Ohtori's lower dragging against Shishido's upper lip. Then they shift, just a little, but enough for their bottom lips, fuller than their upper, to cling and slick against each other. Parting his, he draws Shishido's lower lip in to tease at it, suckling. The sensation settles in the pit of his body like a honey soft, heavy trickle. Shishido makes a little gasp, bites at his mouth, lightly, just a nip, before soothing the sting with his tongue. Ohtori embraces him around the chest with arm he was using to support himself a moment ago, hugs him close for a second before letting his hand dip just above the rim of the obi, strokes the soft cotton back and forth across Shishido's warm skin.

Above them shells shoot up with humming whizzes and bloom into a veritable silver cloud against the solid dark backdrop of the night.

Neither of them see it. Ohtori's world is narrowed down to the touch of Shishido's tongue against the seam of his lips, before he opens them. There is warmth and Shishido slanting deeper and then only heat as the flat of his tongue slides against Ohtori's, dragging sheer pleasure out of the simple contact. Shishido  _takes_ , or rather demands, at an excruciatingly slow pace, too much and too little and Ohtori feels a spasm raking down his spine, pooling there at the crest of his hips dangerously hot and lingering. But then he  _gives_  and Ohtori can use his thumb to ease his chin down, widening the liquid burn of his mouth to taste and feel inside of it, pulling the both of them tight together as his other hand fists the fabric of yukata over Shishido's belly into a wad.

When they pull apart, dazed doesn't even describe it.

Ohtori startles as another shell shrieks into the air, having forgotten the time, the place, the occasion, the company, the everything, but for the quality and sensation of kissing Shishido. Shishido cranks his head back up with a hiss, rolling his shoulders to chase off the strain.

Trying to get a grip, Ohtori brushes his nose through Shishido's hair, inhales deeply.

They watch the fireworks together.

Ohtori feels as though his whole skin is alight, that people would be able to see him glow from miles away. He wishes they were alone, that he could press Shishido into the grass and put his mouth at the deepest point of the V of the neckline. But it's okay. It's more than okay when he's allowed to hold him in public like this: Shishido tucked under his chin, his lips pressing almost distracted kisses into his hair as they both watch another streak shoot up, bloom dragon red before bleeding to death in white sparks.

Nobody says anything.

They are blessedly silent, not one comment escapes to disgruntle Shishido, to embarrass Ohtori.

Even when the fireworks end with a glorious blaze of color like a rainbow shattering into a billion little shards and after, in the deep awed silence when sleepy smiles of wonder are exchanged, not a word.

Only Kabaji catches his attention for a moment, to show Ohtori a smile in his dark eyes, before having to grab and straighten a lolling Hiyoshi.

Closing his eyes, Ohtori smiles into the tickle of hair and whispers, "Can I take you home?"

A short silence. Shishido breathes. Nods.

"Yes."

***

Even when they take their leave, too soon to be completely polite, nobody says a thing. Sure, there's knowing smiles and looks, but no verbal teasing to shatter what is staring to swell and glow between Shishido and he.

The train ride takes ages. The compartment is full of party goers, so Ohtori stands braced over Shishido who leans back against a window, looking rather dreamily out into the dark landscape rushing by. Ohtori doesn't pretend to look anywhere else but Shishido. The yukata really looks good on him. Especially now, with Shishido at ease, beyond caring.

He wishes the train were faster.

***

"Choutarou… Choutarou…"

It ends like he planned it.

For a moment he felt control slip through his fingers when Shishido managed to wriggle his way onto his lap, before putting sharp teeth at the base of his throat. Almost he let go, but he managed to struggle up through the haze, managed to make Shishido submit, eventually. He was too mellow to care, really, didn't put up more than a token sort of protest.

Not tonight.

Shishido can have his way next time, but not now.

Now is Ohtori lying on the bed, leaning back into the pillows and his yukata a white forgotten shadow on the ground somewhere back in the living room. Now is Shishido reclining against him, trapped between Ohtori's spread thighs, his back to Ohtori's chest. Now is the black obi draped in dismissal off the side of the bed. Now is Ohtori's hands slowly easing the blue yukata open.

Now is Shishido murmuring his name over and over, though he isn't doing much else but pressing his mouth against a sweaty temple.

The fabric pools to the sides of Shishido's body. Ohtori eases his palms up and down from ribs to hips, both too bony, more so than usual and looks. Moonlights pales his skin and makes the snug boxers a dark cutout. His naval is a vague teardrop of shadow in the center of his belly. There's a suggestion of muscle, lightly drawing lines into his body and showing a faint divide down the middle of it, from chest to stomach. His nipples are dark ovals some way under the dark bracket of his collarbone. There the skin glistens a little, sweaty.

There's that. Ohtori takes an inordinate amount of time to drink it all in, ignoring the impatient flex backward into him, or the soft pants.

And then there's the jut of his hipbones, high enough to lift the elastic clear of his skin, barely half a centimeter. They etch dark shadows on the inside of them that trace down to disappear under the waistband of the boxers. And the bulge inside those indicates that Shishido isn't, at last, too tired for  _this_ : he cups his right hand over it.

Shishido's hands convulse painfully where they are resting on his thighs and it makes Ohtori squeeze down harder in response as he starts at the sting. There's a hiss, but not a bad one. It might've hurt, a little, but in a good way.

It's not teasing.

It's building.

Just the flat of his palm, dragging up and down along the swell of his cock trapped under the fabric.

The other he keeps hooked over Shishido's left hipbone, steading the instinctive rising and falling of his body under the caress. Shishido's chest starts to heave and his head falls back on Ohtori's shoulder. Soft, breathy  _hah's_ fall from his lips, just exhales with a hint of voice behind it. Ohtori kisses the corner of Shishido's mouth, trying to taste what they feel like. Lips are parted, hot, and bruised from kissing and Ohtori brushes his own along the edge of them.

It's different. Almost Ohtori regrets the lack of skin against skin. Almost. But there's something to be said for the dark blue draped over Shishido's shoulders and arms, loose and shifting folds as they move, the rest of the fabric forming a backdrop on which Shishido lies, all the way to his ankles. It seems to showcase his body like that, the blue highlighting his tone. But there's also fabric between Shishido and him, between his back and Ohtori's chest, soft and crinkling a little as they move. Lush, almost.

Shishido looks gorgeous.

Ohtori doesn't care about the million and then some imperfections. For him they complete the picture. The only small stab is the skinniness of the person under his hands, because this is out of the ordinary and simply not okay. But he's fixing that. He knows he is.

"Don't-  _please_." Shishido asks him, turning his head to smother it against the side of Ohtori's neck. Hiding.

This turns him on.

The irrational shyness versus the daunting boldness that flashes out most of the time. But sometimes there's this, too. The blushing, the tucking his face away, the nip of teeth at his lower lip. The moments are unpredictable. Ohtori doesn't know why or when, no matter how well he knows Shishido otherwise. Blushing is more  _his_  thing. After all, Shishido is the one who can toss out words like 'fuck', 'suck', 'lick', 'harder', 'deeper', 'faster' or 'more' and make them sound like pure poetry. They don't sound vulgar, though they may be. Ohtori can't, no matter who or what, it takes Shishido to tell him what to do for him to  _do_  it, verbal or not. Shishido lays him bare to his very core and Ohtori will blush and stutter and swallow convulsively. And he's predictable like that.

But Shishido? He doesn't make sense. There's been uncountable times with him straddling Ohtori, meeting his eyes almost challengingly while he grabbed his hand and said 'touch me'.

So why now?

Irrational.

He loves it.

So he draws it out a little more, dragging his nails softly along the tempting length under the fabric, his thumb moving in soft circles at the end of it, until the 'please' becomes ' _pleasepleaseplease- oh, Choutarou, please God, fuck, please_ ' with teeth branding a bruise against his neck. Having that, he inches his fingers under the elastic, ring finger flitting along the head of the erection he finds there immediately, feeling the slick of arousal wetting it.

Shishido keeps biting, hard enough to sting, hard enough Ohtori knows that he'll have a mark to show for it before morning.

Letting his other hand join the other, he lifts the fabric, peels it down to roll into a tangle at the top of Shishido's thighs.

Too beautiful for words.

This man spread out under his hands, the dark flush of his cock resting against the white of stomach, the gleam of exertion on his chest. Shishido's mouth is dark, as are his eyes, which find Ohtori's with feverish intensity. Before he kisses Shishido, he lets his left hand ghost upwards, enjoying how the skin is warm and soft and smooth, until he can smudge the pad of his thumb across Shishido's nipple. Shishido jumps and gasps and flushes with arousal, doesn't cast his eyes away but keeps looking at him, even when Ohtori lowers his mouth fully on his, all open and tasting and suckling, because then he keeps looking from under shuttered lashes, pupils blending wide to eat up the barely darker rim of his irises.

He licks along the part of Shishido's lips, taking way to much pleasure to see how overwhelmed his partner is, loving the results of his intimate knowledge of how to milk pleasure from Shishido maybe a little too much. But it's knowing that he and he alone is allowed to do this, has always and ever only been allowed to do this, makes him feel indescribably happy and  _powerful_.

The yukata rustles as Shishido raises an arm, the sleeve falls down to circle around his upper arm. A hand tangles into the hair at the back of Ohtori's head, aggressively demanding the little control the grip gives him.

This is the point where his right hand curls firmly around Shishido's cock, his left palms a rough right-left-right from nipple to nipple.

Ohtori groans softly as hips cant up sharply at the first stroke. He's harder than ever, too, but can't and won't do anything about it.

It has to end like he planned it.

It is about Shishido.

Only Shishido.

"Ryou," he murmurs against the warm corner of Shishido's mouth.

Shishido's lips move on his name in response, but he's beyond voice, his body truly arching up into the grip of Ohtori's fist and yet Ohtori can feel the vibrations mark the syllables of his name deep inside the center of his body.

There's been no hands on him, just the disjointed and quite honestly frustrating rock of Shishido's behind against the cradle of his hips, but he's too close, too damn close and Shishido has to stop hitching his body up like that, pushing himself into the fingers around his cock, has to stop making these almost sobbing gasps, because at this rate he'll come before Shishido does. And wouldn't that be too embarrassing for words?

So he braces his left arm across his partners chest, fingers inching over Shishido's right nipple, trapping him down against his chest with all the raw strength he possesses while he honestly begins to fist his right hand up and down along Shishido's cock, rough and honest, his fingers tracing along the contours of the tip of him, spreading the thicker than water moisture down to ease the friction.

There's no sounds but for Shishido's now unabashed gritty sighs and growls, the wet slick of his hand on smooth skin, his own unstoppable pants and finally the roar of the always alive backdrop of Tokyo not completely shut out by the window glass. Shishido goes on to sobbing, eventually, the gulps for air echoing nakedly against the walls and they kiss somewhere in the middle of it, or the end of it, or is that the beginning of it, really, when Shishido cries and falls apart, and uses the hand in Ohtori's hair, still there, to forcibly angle his head towards him to kiss, not really, just mouths open and lips catching and faces together close, gazes almost tripping over one other as they catch, though he wants to look at the exquisite bow of that body, wants to see the pleasure stain Shishido's stomach and chest, but can't look away lest he miss the love and trust and sleek need in those dark eyes when Shishido comes.

Which he does with a low building ' _aaaah_ ', which cracks into even louder silence as soon as his mouth falls open in ecstasy and come spills against Ohtori's fingers.

Shishido collapses.

With head hanging lifelessly on Ohtori's shoulder, he has a clear view of the length of his body, of his hand still curled soothingly around Shishido. He can see his heart pulse like a caught butterfly on the left side of Shishido's chest, almost unreal in its presence.

The room is dark.

Shishido is warm.

They are both sweating. Between the two of them, the yukata clings with it. Under Ohtori's back, the sheets are mussed.

His own cock aches, egged on beyond the point where being hard is a throbbing pleasure.

But that's okay.

This is more than okay.

"Choutarou," Shishido manages, voice thick and slurring. Dead-tired and happy and moaned gravelly.

Ohtori kisses him, soft and lingering.

It's perfect.

***

It goes to figure that even though his plan  _worked_ , things didn't  _change_.

Not much anyway.

Shishido corners him, alive and crackling with energy two days after, with a scowl so dark Ohtori fears ten years just got detracted from his life-span.

"Did you fucking know that that goddamn asshole of a Taki was there the whole damn time?" he snarls.

Ohtori shrugs. He might have noticed that. You know, on the side, when Shishido wasn't licking syrup off his face and didn't have his tongue in his mouth and all.

"And did you know that he took  _pictures_? Pictures! Huh? Of me in that- that  _thing_!"

Alright, he might've texted Taki-san the day beforehand. To alert him. Of certain… auspicious circumstances.

Shishido advances on him, radiating 'Oh-no-you-fucking-didn't-did-you-Ohtori-Choutarou' and Ohtori wisely backs up until he nearly trips over a chair, and then even further, until he steps on Pancake the cat, who hisses and puffs up like one of Miyazaki's dustbunnies. Only pancake-colored.

"And did you know he  _somehow_  got my mother's e-mail address, huh?" he growls, nose-to-nose and teeth bared in Ohtori's face. "Huh? Chou-ta-rou?" that last, his name, is spelled out with lips whispering against Ohtori's, mockingly sweet and tender of tone, which is too damn sexy despite knowing that he might very well not live to see another day at this rate.

"Uhm." Ohtori says, not very intelligent.

Really. Can you blame him? The opportunity might never, ever present itself again.

Ohtori swallows, looks to the side.

Thank  _God_  Shishido doesn't know about the A3-format poster he hid in the bottom drawer of his desk, under the maybe tad obsessive amount of sketches he's ever made of Shishido.

"And guess what I found in the bottom drawer of your desk, Choutarou? Huh?"

 

Uh.

Alright.

Ohtori does the only thing left to him:

he sticks his hand down the front of Shishido's jeans.

 

After all, who says he can't fight dirty?

  
  


_-fin-_

**Author's Note:**

> gift for my waif name_nashi


End file.
